The trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said;
The recent buds relax and spread,
Their greenness is a kind of grief
Is it that they are born again

I know someone who kisses the way
a flower opens, but more rapidly.
Flowers are sweet. They have
short, beatific lives. They offer
much pleasure. There is

you fit into me
like a hook into an eye
a fish hook
an open eye

WHAT guile is this, that those h
She doth attire under a net of gol
And with sly skill so cunningly th
That which is gold, or hair, may s
Is it that men’s frail eyes, which

Abstraction is an old story with t
Granted no one but a humanist much
Then there is this wildness whereo
It should be of the pleasure of a
No tears in the writer, no tears i

Lord, the Roman hyacinths are blo
The winter sun creeps by the snow
The stubborn season has made stand
My life is light, waiting for the
Like a feather on the back of my h

The rows of cells are unroofed,
a flute for the wind’s mouth,
who comes with a breath of ice
from the blue caves of the south.
O dark and fierce day:

Shadows on the wall
Noises down the hall
Life doesn’t frighten me at all
Bad dogs barking loud
Big ghosts in a cloud

The apes yawn and adore their flea
The parrots shriek as if they were
Like cheap tarts to attract the st
Fatigued with indolence, tiger and
Lie still as the sun. The boa-con

My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hum
equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast; there t
Here the clam deep in the speckled

Understand, I am always trying to
what the soul is,
and where hidden,
and what shape
and so, last week,

We sit indoors and talk of the col
And every gust that gathers streng
Is a threat to the house. But the
We think of the tree. If it never
We’ll know, we say, that this was